The tone of her question made it clear she had no intention of wasting any time and indeed was in a hurry to go back to bed.
“Police. I’m Inspector Montalbano. Good morning. Are you Elena Sclafani?”
She turned pale and took a step backwards.
“Oh my God, has something happened to my husband?”
Montalbano balked. He wasn’t expecting this.
“To your husband? No. Why do you ask?”
“Because every morning when he gets in his car to drive to Montelusa,I…well,he doesn’t know how to drive… Since we got married four years ago, he’s had about ten mi-nor accidents, and so …”
“Signora, I didn’t come to talk to you about your husband, but about another man. And I have many things to ask you. Perhaps it’s better if we go inside.”
She stepped aside and took Montalbano into a small but rather elegant living room.
“Please sit down, I’ll be right back.”
She took ten minutes to get dressed. She returned in a blouse and skirt slightly above the knee, high heels, and with her hair in a bun. She sat down in an armchair in front of the inspector. She showed neither curiosity nor the slightest bit of concern.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“If it’s already made …”
“No, but I’ll go make it. I need some myself. If I don’t drink a cup of coffee first thing in the morning, I don’t connect.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
She went into the kitchen and started rummaging around. The telephone rang, and she answered. She returned with the coffee. They each put sugar in their demitasses, and neither spoke until they’d finished drinking.
“That was my husband, just now, on the phone. He was calling to let me know he was about to start class. He does that every day, just to reassure me he got there all right.”
“May I smoke?” Montalbano asked.
“Of course. I smoke, too. So …” said Elena, leaning back into the armchair, a lighted cigarette between her fingers. “What’s Angelo done this time?”
Montalbano looked at her bewildered, mouth hanging open. For the past half hour, he’d been trying to figure out how to broach the subject of the woman’s lover, and she comes out with this explicit question?
“How did you know I—”
“Inspector, there are currently two men in my life. You made it clear you hadn’t come to talk about my husband, and this can only mean you’re here to talk about Angelo. Am I right?”
“Yes, you’re right. But before going any further, I would like you to explain that adverb you used: ‘currently.’ What do you mean?”
Elena smiled. She had bright white teeth, like a wild young animal.
“I mean that at the moment there’s Emilio—my husband—and there’s Angelo. More often there’s only one: Emilio.”
While Montalbano was contemplating the meaning of these words, Elena asked:
“Do you know my husband?” “No.”
“He’s an extraordinary person, kind, intelligent, understanding. I’m twenty-nine years old. He’s seventy. He could be my father. I love him. And I try to be faithful to him. I try. But I don’t always succeed. As you can see, I’m speaking to you with total sincerity, without even knowing the reason for your visit. By the way, who told you about me and Angelo?”
“Michela Pardo.”
“Ah.”
She snuffed out her cigarette in the ashtray and lit another. A wrinkle now furrowed her beautiful brow. She was concentrating very hard. Not only beautiful, but also quite intelligent, no doubt. Without warning, two more wrinkles appeared at the corners of her mouth.
“Did something happen to Angelo?”
She’d finally asked.
“He’s dead.”
She shook as though from an electrical current, and closed her eyes tight.
“Was he murdered?”
She was quietly weeping, without sobbing. “What makes you think there was a crime?”
“Because if it had been a car accident or natural death, a police inspector would not have come to interrogate the victim’s mistress at eight-thirty in the morning.”
Hats off.
“Yes, he was murdered.” “Last night?”
